A Writers Life

Spring…

It’s at times like this when I wish I could paint. The birds are calling as the tide creeps in unnoticed. The spiteful bite of winter is absent from the breeze, and the warm sun is unexpected but so very welcome. The salt in the air is a soft accompaniment to a slowly waking spring, and I regret that I have no skill with a sable brush and cannot capture the feeling on canvas.

The branches are slowly unfurling and even the first few blossoms are making a delicate display, and despite the seasons being in constant repetition spring still takes away my breath.

This is a time when everything is only expectation of things to come — a promise of picnics, barbeques and late nights.

It’s at this time when I long for the summer… The scent of cut-grass is a must have, Wimbledon a definite, along with the traffic-jam, motorway, day-at-the-beach journey….. these things are coming, coming with such speed I can almost touch them, and with them comes a feeling of satisfaction so intense it boarders the bittersweet.